Warhammer Crossover: This time it's serious!
by awilla the hun
Summary: As you can tell from the title, this is the most serious warhammer 40k crossover ever. As a result, I have put in as many races as possible, with as thin an explanation as possible. Oh, and I am taking this absolutely, totally seriously. Seriously. RnR!
1. Chapter 1

As you may have guessed from the title, this is the most ludicrous warhammer 40,000 crossover fic ever devised by anyone. It will include as many universes as possible, even those that the author knows virtually nothing about (and I will pretend to know as much about 40k as many crossover writers.) It will include as many crossover clichés as possible. It will include as many jokes as possible. It will be as insane as possible in almost every single way.

Now that the mission statement is done, lets get to work!

(Note: I own nothing. GW, George Lucas and so on own all the copyrights. Well, almost. I own the original characters.)

Chapter 1: By What means does the insanity begin.

The two tech priests sat at their work station. Incense filled the air-or at least, that's what they told the master they were sniffing out of that little ornate gold pipe of theirs-and its heady scent filled the nostrils of all nearby with the strange desire to-

"'tis a most queer scent, bothers."

A third red robed figure, this time an Enginseer of the 76th Transiberian Foot, had noticed. He now changed to the mystical language of the tech priests, forgotten to all but a few, once used by scientists in the most ancient days of yore.

"WTF?"

Both tech priests looked up in precise unison.

"Noob," one muttered. The other nodded its quiet agreement, before taking another sniff of the Holy Omnissah's Incense for His Blessing. The Enginseer, after a brief moment, joined in.

It must be confirmed that men of such great calibre as these specimens are the ones manning the mighty war engines of the Imperium, and are leading our great star fleets to glory.

Meanwhile, in the hold…

Sergeant Broot had never understood why he had been given such a ludicrous and ridiculous name, but (upon joining the Transiberian Foot), he found consolation in the fact that all his fellows appeared to have even worse ones. "Right, lads," he said, wondering why he had suddenly developed a cockney accent. "Listen up. D'you remember why we're here?"

"Info dump alert," someone muttered.

"Who said that?" And what was that guy talking about? No matter. "We're here because the Cogboys, in all their infinite wisdom, have decided to take over an Emperor Forsaken Mudhole by the name of…well, it seems to be called Emperor Forsaken Mudhole. No matter. The Cogboys found it, and we're going to take it over in the Emperor's Name!"

There was, of course, a cheer (you get that quite a lot after inspirational speeches that are actually rather rubbish. Good old . But, moving swiftly back to the story…)

"Quite right," said a voice. The squad (for that was how many guardsmen who were sitting in this particular dormitory, which must now be described as dark, dank, metal walled, ill lit, smelly in at least eighteen different ways, and generally unimaginative) all turned, for it was the familiar voice of Father Comstock that they heard.

Father Comstock was the company chaplain, and he was fairly proud of his post, despite his vows towards modesty and humbleness. This was for three reasons. The first was that he had started life as an illiterate peasant, and had worked his way through the hierarchy of the Imperium to become a priest-a literate, pious priest moreover, willing to die for God Emperor and Mankind, capable of raising a sermon to fill the hearts of men with a Firey Zeal and Incredible Valour. The second was that he liked the way that, whenever he did this, a mysterious sunbeam would always pierce through the clouds (even in hive worlds that had no natural light), soldiers' weapons would take on a White Hot Holy Glow, and he did rather like the colour when that happened. The third was that Imperial Priests hardly ever appear in fanfics, and that this mere reference was more than enough for him. (It remains a mystery why this is; probably because the writer can't be arsed to make the guard look like anything other than the US Army in SPAES LOL!)

But, once again, I digress. Not for the last time.

"Father," Sergeant Broot muttered, removing his characteristic beret and bowing his head. The other squaddies did the same.

"Bow not, my sons," said Father Comstock, hitching up his cassock skirts so as to sit down with them on the (very long) bench. "For the worst is not yet at hand."

"You know, Father," said Sergeant Broot after a moment, "that makes absolutely no sense."

"Most assuredly not, My Son," said Comstock, smiling beatifically to himself. (He was, for the sake of description, dressed in the aforementioned brown cassock, and had an atypically long head of hair black hair that was bound back in a queue.) "But it is… expected of me."

"Expected?" That reminded Sergeant Broot of something. "Father," he said, "may I seek guidance from His representative on the mortal plane?"

"Why, of course," Comstock replied.

The rest of the squad filed out dutifully, as they so often do in this situations despite being all nice and comfortable, with their books and narcotics and porn slates and much else besides all in their favourite positions…

And so it was that Comstock and Broot sat alone, in the great, dark, vibrating (stop giggling) hull of the ship.

(Which is called the Explorator Imperatus, because all ships must have Latinised names in these things, and is in a fleet of eight other such exploratory vessels.)

"Father," Sergeant Broot began, cautiously, "this may be a bit difficult to explain."

Comstock nodded, and sighed. "Fear not, my son," he said comfortingly, laying a wrinkled hand on Broot's shoulder; he had seen so many cases like this. "There is nothing sinful in desiring the company of men over the female sex."

"No, no, no!" Broot said hastily, leaping away from the clergyman. "It isn't like that at all."

Comstock raised an eyebrow. "It usually is," he said in a slightly strange tone.

"Well, it isn't this time." Broot was on the verge of reaching for his laspistol. "It's something… quite different."

"Oh?" Comstock put his hands into his baggy sleeves. "Please,

explain."

"Well," Broot began, "it's like I'm in a story."

"A story, my son?" Comstock almost laughed. "That cannot be true."

"Well… people keep doing things that make no sense, but look dramatic. Like Corporal Tynemann running at the Bezerker with his bayonet, shouting the names of the parents that it had killed, and he wanted to avenge."

"A brave man," Comstock muttered. "He will be with the Emperor, I am quite sure."

"Tynemann was a wounded man who had a few moments ago not been able to walk! And there was Lieutenant Trevisa-the woman who commands 9th platoon, sensible lass-who suddenly dyed her hair red and started saying that she was better than any man, and going all spunky, and firey, and-"

"I see," said Father Comstock. "I see."

"You… understand this, Father?"

"Yes. Quite possibly." Comstock cracked his knuckled in his sleeves. "You see, there are strange warp entities-neither good, nor evil-that call themselves 'authors'. The _Chronicles of Father Fepp_ concern a Priest meeting one on his pilgrimage to Terra. Well, if one is to call meeting one staring through a Gellar field whilst at prayer… in any case, he described as a slightly pale, thin humanoid, with black stained fingers."

Broot was shaking his head even now. "Authors?" he spat. "Aren't they just a pretentious load of tossers writing about sex and bad combat novels?"

"These are no exception, my son. They sometimes attempt to manipulate the actions of those on the mortal plane. Fear not, for they are not usually that malicious-well, if you accept the fiend known as 'George AR AR Martin'. Being one of his characters is like a curse. Anyway, they are usually into writing what we would know as 'very badly'. And it would seem that we have been pulled into just such a situation."

"Why would that be, Father?"

"Well, it is obvious! There is no dramatic tension in this part of the story! The ship hull looks much like any other, which indicates?"

"It indicates…" Broot thought for a moment. "That this is a standard issue hull used by the Adeptus Mechanicus?"

"No, My Son! That the author has no idea what a ship hull really looks like, so he gets his stereotypical image of one!" Comstock was raving now, as if doing a sermon, and would have gone on had not Broot interrupted him.

"So is there any way out, Father?"

"No, My Son. There is not. We must pray to the Emperor above that the author does not do anything foolish. And I do believe that he just has." Comstock sighed again, even more weakly than before. "My Son, I have just had the sudden urge to follow you into battle."

That, Broot thought, really was a change. "Into battle, Father?"

"Yes. Despite my decided lack of front line expertise and advanced age the Author seems to think that I would be an effective or dramatic soldier. Oh well. I shall be fighting with my Holy Sword, blessed at the Cathedral of Saint Sadinitus, Holiest of Holies in the Divinitus Sector."

Broot whistled. "I've never heard of that before."

"Neither have I," Comstock muttered, "so I shall also be taking my shotgun."

And let us leave our two heroes now (whose words about "authors" shall play no further part in the plot), and travel some light years through space towards the world of Emperor Forsaken Mudhole. On it is a starship, and (despite my near total lack of experience with the series), it is to be called the _USS Comrade George Washington_.

As you can see, it's from the Next Generation era.

On board, its commander is speaking to his executive officer, the Token Vulcan.

"Sir," the Vulcan (He'Stan-presumably for the lulz-was saying), "you cannot be serious. How can you possibly consider sending out another security detail to survey this planet? Don't we have scanners for this kind of thing?"

The Captain pounded the table. "God damn it, He'Stan! I don't have time for your danged logical remarks! I'll take my shirt off with rage next time you say that again!" His anger was, in part, caused by the complex he had had throughout his life because of his name.

"In theory, sir," said the Vulcan He'Stan (clever, eh?), "it is a sound plan to scout the planet. After all, our sensors are extremely vulnerable to Plot Introduced Technobabble generators. But-"

"But they're redshirts who die when they get stung by god damned stinging nettles," said Captain Obvious.

Yes, that really is his name.

"Yes, sir. My thoughts exactly. Sending all these brave men to die is an undeniable waste of resources."

"That's enough crap from you," said Captain Obvious, tearing his shirt off and pausing for a moment to ensure that his manly chest was pointed at the cameras before continuing. "You see," he went on, "you Vulcans have no concept of glory. How am I to raise patriotic feeling in the soulless bastards at Starfleet HQ if I just sit down and scan everything? I have to make dramatic decisions to make them sit up and take notice! If I have to send men to die so as to reveal the weaknesses of our ground army" (as you can see, the author has had some experience with StarDestroyer), "thus saving all the more lives in the future, then so be it!"

"That," said He'Stan after a moment, "is surprisingly logical. But also totally callous! Can't we just do simulations of it with our advanced computer technology?"

"No," said Captain Obvious, and that was that.

And let us spare a brief thought for the poor redshirt patrol that has just been sent out (and sneak in a description of Emperor Forsaken Mudball while we're at it.) They are stumbling, alone, through a moonscape of dull grey craters, with the chill of space coursing through their veins. They are hungry, and tired. Their commander, disoriented by the mysterious cries in the wind of "I pity the poor fool who steps in this territory" calls a halt, and posts sentries.

He is, of course, oblivious to the fact that he has stationed his men in the worst possible spot for an ambush; it is surrounded by thick dead woodland, in a bowl, with blinding starlight flashing in their eyes.

It is therefore of no surprise to the reader that the ambush really does happen, so I shall avoid going through the long and tedious process of building suspense.

"Ambush!" someone cries as the first volley of blaster shots rings out, just as a mass of white armoured soldiers charge out of the tree line, a robed woman at their head wielding a long, dangerous looking beam of light in one hand.

Now, of course, there is only ever one outcome when a mass of Imperial Stormtroopers (for it is they) charge into a new crossover fanfic, and these Trekkie Redshirts knew it. They fired their phasers for a little while, and obligingly ran at the Sith when she got close rather than doing the clever thing by shooting at her. Doubtless, if the author was a fanatical exponent of StarDestroyer type hyping up, he would spend whole paragraphs describing the uselessness of anything made by Gene Rodenberry (dirty commie as he is), and go on to bask in the warm glow of ecstasy that comes with the knowledge that your chosen sci fi fandom would pwn all others.

But happily, I am not such a tedious person. Neither am I unaware of the conventions of story telling, so I will finish by saying that the Redshirt commander ended up by lying on his back, with the Sith Lady's not remotely fetishistic spike heeled boot across his throat, and the not remotely phallic red lightsabre held to his face.

"Where do you come from?" came the appropriately terrifying but erotic (may as well say it clear) voice from inside the hood.

Even now, the commander knew what to say that would cheer up audiences when they knew of this.

"America!" he cried, humming the stars and stripes.

"No, seriously," the hooded thing (may as well go back to his PoV now) said. "Where the hell do you come from, little man?"

The Commander kept humming, very conscious of the lightsabre blistering his face.

"Fine," said the thing in the hood. "Trooper DH45, hand me my hitting stick."

"Your… what, milady?" the trooper asked nervously.

The Sith sighed in an erotic but terrifying way. (As they do.)

"Trooper, you know that last patrol of redshirts we slaughtered?"

The stormtrooper nodded.

"Well, one of them asked me to, and I quote, 'burn in hell'. Well, I captured him with a restrictive force power, as you do when a hormonal adolescent is writing this story, and asked him what hell was. He said it was where demons live to punish sinners, and that some were ugly with hooves, tails and suchlike, and that some were evil temptresses that cut off various unmentionables. Then I killed him."

The stormtrooper nodded. "So, left their victims begging for mercy, did they?"

"Oh yes."

"I know a man in 6th platoon who could do that," the stormtrooper said helpfully. "He kicks them in the bollocks and then feeds the remenants to a dog."

"Well, this 'Satan' apparently has a better sense for the dramatic than the man in 6th platoon. So." The hooded creature (it's the commander's PoV again, you see) turned its face towards the Commander once more.

"Do I look threateningly erotic to you?"

"Ah…" the Commander thought for a moment. "No, not really, if I'm honest. And why are you speaking English? And why's that guy speaking English?"

"The Force says so," the creature replied.

"The what-"

"It just does."

"Ah." Some technobabble. Captain Obvious did it all the time.

"Anyway. Do I look threateningly erotic?"

"No." The commander shook his head emphatically, unwittingly letting the lightsabre tip burn his ear a little. He yelped. "You'll have to show me your face for that, for starters."

"What the hell do you think this is? Some sort of Twi'lek strip joint?" The creature was now furious. "Now for the threatening part. A Sith NEVER removes her hood this early, never! She removes it later to look Darkly Beautiful to the Trekkie Starship Captain whilst she holds him immobile with some Force Shit."

"Is that some sort of threat?" the Commander asked, before howling in pain as the force was unleashed upon him.

Remember your training, he thought. Under telepathic attack. What do you do? Ahh…. Howl in pain! No! Look like you're concerntrating really hard, like you're constipated. Yes! And groan with effort, and come up with some pithy remark like…

"Get offa me!"

This didn't seem to help at all, he thought, as his life was slowly and agonisingly drained out of him.

Now that all the factions (when I say all, I mean many. More will come) have been established, it is now time to take a break, let my typing hand heal up, and prepare for Chapter 2 which will come in due course. Oh, and to abjectly beg for reviews.

So…

R AND R, U FAGGOTS! I WON'T WRITE ANOTHER CHAPTER UNTIL YOU GIVE ME 5 OF TEH KEWL REVIEWS!!11!!

That will do the trick.

(Oh, and suggestions for other worlds to put in will be appreciated.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Ben: Thank you?**

**VexMaster: Oh, the irony. My greatest target actually enjoys the mockery!**

(Note: I own nothing in terms of copyrights apart from the original characters.)

Chapter 2: In Which Several Persons Take Aspirations Towards Emperor Forsaken Mudhole

"Right. Listen up, lads," Broot said somewhat repetitively.

"Info dump alert," someone muttered.

"If anyone else does that again, I'll get the Commissar. Understand?" The guardsmen (who, it is to be confirmed, are wearing Cadian gear) nodded dutifully. "Right. We're on the dropships, and they'll start to rain down upon the world below us in around ten minutes time. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Any questions?"

A hand went up. "Sir, exactly why are we here?"

"Plot reasons, dear boy," said a voice. The guardsmen looked up to see Colonel Brootus, their regimental commander, standing in the entrance to the drop pod. "Operation Plot Reasons, the Cogboys call it," the Colonel went on, "and do be at ease."

"The men are not saluting, sir," Broot said respectfully. "They're all strapped in."

"Are they? Oh yes. Excellent! Always good to pre empt an order. Promotes intelligence. Well done, and all that." The Colonel laughed nervously, and tugged at one of his medals. "We shall be accompanying the 21st ESR" (the author's own army, by some incredible coincidence)-"a fine regiment, and their own Colonel is a very fine man; and I hear that the Astartes are coming to assist us also." His voice had now adopted a tone approaching stern, and his interpretation of inspiring. "Remember, soldiers, that the operation to take Emperor Forsaken Mudball-" he tapped his microbead, and muttered "is this really the world's name, Steptoe? It is? Then you should tell me whilst you keep feeding the speech! I shall speak to you later."

He suddenly noted the guardsmen watching curiously, and laughed again. "Ah, yes. Where was I?"

"The operation to take Emperor Forsaken Mudball," Broot said.

"Quite so, Sergeant, quite so. Anyway, it's all very vital to the Imperium and all that, and the Adeptus Mechanicus do want it rather a lot, so we had best get on. Cheero and all that, and the Emperor Protects. Good luck!"

And, as the brightly medalled figure turned away, Broot could have sworn that he could hear his voice muttering: "Well, Steptoe, I always _did _have a talent for discretion and public speaking."

Broot sighed to himself. It was going to be one of those drops.

After a few minutes of-well, as I'm trying to imitate a normal author of fan fiction, I won't bother to explain all the fascinating modes of leisure that must exist for men in dropships in the 41st millennium-generally sitting down, the guardsmen heard a new voice on the loudspeakers.

"Guardsmen! This is the Duke Lawford speaking, commander of the 21st Emperor's Saggitarrian Rifles! It is an honour to fight alongside such a noble regiment as the Transiberians! We shall purge the world beneath us of whatever foes we face! Especially, may I add, with the Astartes fighting alongside us; I shall now let their Captain speak with you."

There was polite applause. And then…

"ALWAYS ANGRY! ALL THE TIME!"

And now we leave the readers to mull over the introduction of the Angry Marines (I don't know who made them up, but it wasn't me) to this already heavily overburdened crossover, as it is time to introduce… yet another faction.

Well, actually not, because I have stopped writing for a couple of weeks, picked up again, and forgotten which faction I was considering. My memory will return.

Anyway…

Captain Obvious snarled loudly, punching the wall of his spacecraft, which wobbled unconvincingly. "God damn it!" he cried. "He'stan!"

The Vulcan walked in, sighing to himself."Did another patrol get killed, sir?"

"You're damn right it did! Just as I thought!"

"Well, actually, it was just as I-"

"Silence. This is a scene when I brood about the horror of war, thus confirming that this is indeed a Next Generation episode." The Captain sat himself down on one of the bridge's chairs (which were doubtless chic in the 70s, but were beginning to look a bit tacky.)

"Yes, sir." He'Stan nodded.

"It's a damn shame, war. A damn shame."

He'Stan kept a politic silence.

"It uses mankind's best to do mankind's worst. It's the hell where youth and laughter go, you see."

"Sir."

"What?"

"Could you find a different source for your quotes?"

"God damn it, He'Stan! The camera was getting just the right close up on my thousand yard stare, and you just ruined it!"

"Now sir, please, don't pound that wall again. There have been whole dollars not spent on it. It's just that Starfleet have all been looking in their encyclopaedias. They know that you're stealing your supposedly 'orignal' lines from Siegfried Sassoon, William Shakespeare, Wilfred Owen, and-inexplicably- Seth MacFarlane."

"Don't you understand, Vulcan He'Stan?" Captain Obvious jumped to his feet, and started pacing. "MacFarlane was a great, ancient writer! None can even lick that man's boots in terms of their mastery of comic timing, and subtle humour!"

"Well, sir, with respect, might it not be indicative of a…lesser intellect if you cannot make up your own boring, clichéd platitudes?"

Obvious froze.

"Hell yeah!" he said, rubbing his hands with glee. "Though they won't be like that guy James T-"

"No sir. These will be intelligent ones." He'Stan rolled his eyes even as he said it.

"I could say 'Do you suckers wanna live forever?', for example. That'll sound real heroic!"

"Well done, Captain Obvious," He'Stan muttered. "Although I may have heard that one before…"

Just then, the door opened with a loud _woosh_. (Don't they all?) "You wished to see me, Captain?" asked Lieutenant Ginger.

"I don't remember," said Captain Obvious.

"Well sir, how come I got all these reports from your email address about me having the best legs in Starfleet?" (For she did, being an Empowered Spunky Female Officer in a short skirt with thigh boots. Sigh. I'd _definitely_ want her to command my ship…)

(If there are any typing mistakes here on in, they're because I drooled on the keyboard.)

Vulcan He'Stan chose this moment to leave the room on important business to do with a logic engine, and never explained his reasons to any passing crew members.

"Well," Captain Obvious began. "That doesn't sound like my style."

"And then telling me to get ready for the 'ten foot barge pole of desire to start pushing away'."

"That does," he admitted. "But it still doesn't explicitly tell you to come here."

"That was for two reasons. The first was that you asked me to, and I quote 'Fire my photon torpedoes' in the bridge. The second was that the crew are getting a bit mad at present." She sat down on a hilariously impractical seat, and crossed her legs, a la Sharon Stone in a movie whose name I won't mention in view of this being T Rated, which I have only heard about rather than seen.

"Mad?" Obvious leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "Why would they be getting mad?"

It could be observed that, away from He'Stan the Vulcan, a very different officer starts to emerge.

"Sir, it's that they've been stranded on this…world. Many have lost friends in the security patrols."

Obvious nodded seriously. "I keep trying to reduce the casualty rate," he said. "I give them phaser rifles, the heaviest weapons in our arsenal! But Starfleet just doesn't give us the firepower, and we have to search the planet on foot for a way out, without scanners; there's a heavy plotdevicium build up somewhere, whilst keeping enough back to defend the ship. We have no choice."

"Well, sir," said Ginger, "maybe we could try something."

"Yes." Obvious thought for a moment. Then, he jumped to his feet. "You've got it, Ginger!" He gave her a hug in 'sheer joy' at his discovery.

"Got what, sir? I was checked for syphilis at last medical examination," she muttered to herself (well, she muttered the last line, words spilling out of ruby lips…)

Nbtesjfkd.

(I apologise, but that was the drool talking. It's fixed now.)

"We, Ginger, we! We, the command staff, are going to follow protocol: showing the crew that we know what we're doing by setting out on foot ourselves, shooting whatever comes our way, kicking ass, taking names, and doing the job ourselves!"

"Sir."

"What?"

"That's really dumb."

"Don't worry. I'll leave Ensign Crusher behind to command. Clever guy, but-well, what's he gonna do to win the day? After all," he concluded (well, concluded this little sketch/story section), turning towards the all seeing eye of the ship's log camera, "would a guy with a name like that ever save the universe a disproportionate number of times?"

And so, the perspective leaves the interior of the _Comrade George Washington_, and flies (the camera probably knocking some birds out of the sky with its flight-except that this is taking the strange deadness of most fanfic worlds a bit far, leaving it with no wildlife), down into the bowels of Emperor Forsaken Mudhole, into a deep, dark cave.

In this cave is a large pentacle, and in this pentacle is a sinister, hooded individual, surrounded by a number of dead babies.

"Well," says he, removing his hood to reveal a power armoured helmet, "that was a nice little snack. For someone else." Around him, he imagines his minions nodding in agreement, maybe with one looking around shiftily and throwing a tiny, under developed rib into a corner, before being vapourised by his vast sorcerous powers. (For he is a Chaos Sorceror by the name of Malicious the Malicious. But that's by the by.)

He clears his throat, sprinkles his dust around the pentacle, and opens his mind to the warp.

He prepares the ancient words for summoning daemons.

"Come on, motherf-)(*rs! I worship motherf)(*&^g Slaneesh here! I DEMAND RESPECT!"

At least, that's what he heard the words were from that drunk Ork at the _Eight Pointed Star _on Medrengard.

With a bright pink flash, his desired warp spawn emerged.

"Great news, O Spawn of Slaneesh!" Malicious cried. "Owing to your timely arrival, my warband has doubled in size!"

_But you just summoned one daemonette, _the daemonette (it would be a daemonette in this story, wouldn't it) replied in a matter of fact sort of way, words echoing Alluringly and Melodiously in Malicious's mind, tearing at his Very Soul with Evil Longing.

"Well, yes. But I'm an optimist, you understand. Much work to be done, you know. And no mortals to do it, so someone has to." He laughed nervously, and shuffled his power armoured boots.

_So_, the voice said again, _what makes you think that this daemonette-that is to say, me-who has served in the Daemons Army Book in Warhammer Fantasy_ and _Chaos Marine Codex 3.5 edition, under Grand Tournament Generals, is going to obey just one sorcerer?_

"Great accolades, O Darkly Lascivious One. And worthy of my task. You see…"

And, because plot must be maintained, we gaily skip over the actual cause of the daemonette's summoning, because I intend to maintain tension, and this chapter is over.

GIVE ME MOAR REVIEWS, U DIPSHITS!

That sounds pretty encouraging to me.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: A continuation of the story began in chapters 1 and 2

"_I agree with this,"_ the daemonette mind-spoke. (Or mind said. Or telepathically said. Really, I can't be arsed to think of the right term here, so let us move on.)

"Right," Sergeant Broot said, adjusting his seatbelt and looking around at the platoon of guardsmen assembled in the dropship, "who wants a song?"

The response, it must be said, was decidedly mixed; but, as Sergeant Broot is what is known as a dour optimist (well, actually, that isn't a real expression, but never mind), he presumed that the answer was yes.

"Sacred Emperor," Lieutenant Eager muttered to himself, and turned up his E ("E is for Emperor, loyal believer!") Pod.

"'Tis Fourty Credits on the Drum," Broot began.

"Sure is, Mister Sharpe," someone muttered.

"Who said that? And who's Sharpe?" Broot asked, slowly sinking into a different area of mind and body.

"In the ESR, I gather," someone else muttered. "Commands their Rifles Company."

"COMMISSAR! I need you now!" Broot scrabbled for his laspistol.

The intercom from the cockpit crackled.

"Mortals," the tech priest pilot said irritably. "I require quiet and concentration for the operation of this ship. Desist in your idle mutterings."

(That's how the translator said it anyway. Actually, in the secret language of the Tech Priests, it went something like this:

"Quit it, noobs! Stfu, m'kay?")

"Right. Sorry, Your Holiness. Anyway, anyone for a song?"

Lieutenant Eager, currently joyously listening to _Crank This_ by _Guardzman Boi_, was unhappily incapable of giving the negative. He hummed, nodded, and then proceeded to weave away in a most alarming fashion, making some exceptionally alarming arm movements as he did so.

"Seems so. Right. Here goes." Broot took a breath. "Where was I? 'For those who volunteer to come! To 'list and fight for the Throne today, O'er the warp and-"

Unfortunately, Lieutenant Eager's E Pod had malfunctioned. This caused the sound of Sergeant Broot to be transported via plotdevicium waves to all the other dropships.

The responses came in thick and fast, and were as supportive and encouraging as can be expected.

"ALWAYS ANGRY, ALL THE TIME! INCLUDING NOW, YOU LITTLE HUMAN PIECE OF SHITSTACK! I'M ANGRY DAMMIT!"

"Oh," someone muttered. (Again.) "That was the regimental gardeners, then."

"No, it wasn't. That's us. Your voice, Sergeant, is making our Daffodils wilt. Pray stop. Thank you. Although I do wonder why we're even coming on this drop, sometimes, but that's another matter."

"That's Plot Devicium, old man," said Colonel Steptoe's voice. "I don't know why the intercom has just turned on again."

"I'll keep going anyway," Broot said bravely. "I'm the sarge! You ain't! Why am I suddenly talking like this? No matter!" He cleared his throat, produced his tuning flute, gave it a blow (may your gay jokes stop right now, impure people) and started again.

"You know how it is," someone else muttered some time later.

"How is it?" Broot asked. "I was rather enjoying that little ditty, actually."

"You wait years for a good song," the someone muttered. "And then absolutely none of them turn up at the same time."

The Commissar was requested, but was not capable of coming; they had just entered the atmosphere…

("ZOOM! ZOOM! NEEOW, DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!" The Tech Priests intoned ceremonially.)

Meanwhile, let us exercise the already liberally employed author's privilege to skip into the bridge of the Imperial Star Destroyer, _Palpatine Kicks Ass, BITCH! YEAH!_

It was called _PKABY _for short, but not for long, because this name sounded bad even by the extremely low intellectual standards of an Imperial Storm Trooper, and only invited mockery from the other billions of Captains who had proper, good, wholesome ship names like _Serial Number BETA 19274, _or some other such work of artistic genius.

"You know," said Sith Lady Darth Allura, "sometimes I wonder why I ever took this job on."

"Why's that, mistress," said one of her inevitable bevy of female assistants in mysterious leather outfits that have to be there for some reason, but not one that easily springs to mind just yet.

(The outfits are, of course, there for good reason, as the majority of the audience know in their hearts that, whatever I may claim about them being "stealthy" or "vital for the upkeep of the Sith cause", it is the fantasies about what dwells within them which are by far more important for the author: both to service audience, and him/herself. But the bevy of assistants, however, are probably not. But who cares? We've managed to get far enough away from established canon already; lets go a few more light years, and see what happens!)

"Well," Darth Allura (lets remove the overly long titles for now) said, "I know that I'm Lord Vader's long lost sister and all. And that, as he so kindly didn't mind my presence in the Galactic Empire, I should probably provide some familial affection. But this is getting a bit far."

"Why would that be, O Mistress?"

"It's very kind of you, Cistercia," said Darth Allura, cupping the passing minion's cheek in a motion not remotely founded off the author's lurid hidden desires, "to allow me to speak my thoughts so plainly to the ship's log camera. Few super villains have a more obliging bunch of helpers than I have."

(You know that warning about the drool occasionally causing typing errors? Well, I now extend it to all my female characters. Except one, who will enter the story presently.)

They all blushed with pleasure under their outfits at the complement.

(How can I tell? Well, I am exercising what James Fenimore Cooper calls "the author's privilege"-that is to say, the ability to move the perception of the reader to wherever is necessary for their entertainment, education, and elucidation. Granted, James Fenimore Cooper probably did not use it to leer under the clothes of his attractive female characters, of which he had many-indeed, it may have added something to the unutterable dirge that is "The Leatherstocking Tales" if we were to occasionally have some good ol' nudity involved. I dislike James Fenimore Cooper enormously as an author. Mark Twain was right, you know. Shall we get back to telling this story now, then?)

"No one gets longer, more melodramatic and revealing soliloquies than I," Allura said, smiling under her hood, and stretching luxuriantly. "So lets get straight to the point."

"In a long, meandering, threateningly erotic way, mistress?" one of them asked.

"Exactly."

"Business as usual then."

"Precisely."

"Oh good."

"You're stretching it a bit now, Cistercia."

"Eugenia."

"Whatever. Just stop interrupting.

"Okay."

"Right."

"I'm supposed to say that," said Darth Allura. (I am permitted to reveal that, under her cloak, she was looking at several pieces of paper entitled 'script'.)

"Whoops." This was the last thing that that said assistant would say for a while, for a bolt of force pain caught her somewhere unfortunate.

"Anyway, lets go. So, I'm wondering why I ever came here, and so on, to the _fascinated silence_ of my assorted attractive female henchgirls."

"And guys!" came a brave shout or two from a squad of passing stormtroopers.

"Them too. I keep forgetting I was given a private company of them. Anyway, to return to be speech, I am wondering why we're here because of the sheer tedium of it all. No," she added as tight leather hooded heads creaked up from across the ship with bemused expressions on their faces ((author's privilege strikes again!)), "scratch that. You're a really great bunch, you really are, and I'd never have got where I am today without your able assistance."

"But I thought you hated where you are today."

"Shut up. Anyway, the real reason is that I just don't like leather today, and the thought of being cooped up on a ship for months with a bevy of leather clad beauties…" her voice faded away wistfully for a moment, and returned again, "is too much for me."

"We can change, if you like, mistress," said another disapproving voice.

"No, no. I was joking. And you know as well as I that there isn't that much else to get into around here," she muttered privately to herself. "Anyhoo, the real reason that I'm a bit dubious about this is that the reason given is to utterly ridiculous."

"What's that, mistress?"

"Thanks, gals. And guys." she added hastily. "You're doing well here. The reason of there being this random gigantic build up of the force energy out here somewhere is a pretty weird one. I mean, I can appreciate an imbalance of the Force as well as any hick town hillbilly former Jedi Master, but they're getting a bit common recently. I don't like it."

She paced, brooding, and her various minions continued to bustle around in an important looking way.

"Aha!" she cried. "I have it!"

"So do I," said a new voice. Allura turned, only to see the figure of Imperial Admiral Cicero striding towards her. (I know that the other sort of Imperial Admirals are usually the ones with latin names, but forgive me.) "My Lady," says he, clicking his heels and touching his grey cap in salute.

(We can be sure, of course, that his Coruscant/English accent is superbly upper crust. And that he is wearing, not only great cap, but a grey coat and trousers, as well as jack boots. Oh, and he commands a large army wearing coal scuttle helmets, which habitually commits genocide. Exactly what is George Lucas trying to say about English accented people here?)

"What is it, Admiral?" Allura asked coldly, swiftly reverting to Dark Lady of the Sith mode. "Any more of your bumpkins shot themselves at firing practice."

Admiral Cicero shook his head. "It is even worse, My Lady," said he. "Now, I am the acknowledged expert here on conventional armed force, am I not?"

"And on matters animal, vegetable and mineral/ You are the very model of an Imperial Admiral." This is what Allura wanted very much to say, and probably could have done, but she doubted anyone else in the room would get the joke. "Yes and no," she said, hood remaining firmly pulled up.

"Well," said Admiral Cicero, "it has came to my attention that your… assistants have been tampering with our training simulators." In a black gloved hand (the black gloves having slapped many a Rebel Alliance prisoner in the face in the past), between finger and thumb, he raised something up for inspection to the Sith Lady. Something so foul and anthaema to Imperial Military Doctrine that it simply beggared belief that anyone would even conceive its presence in anyone's arsenal.

"It's a paper bullseye," said Lady Allura tonelessly.

"Yes. Our soldiers, My Lady, should be taught many things. Obedience. Discipline. Dash. Zeal. Courage. But basic squad tactics and marksmanship must never be among them."

"Oh really?"

Cicero nodded firmly. "They do not need such things, My Lady, when the mighty AT AT is present to support them! They have no need not to attack in a vast, easily targetable human wave firing pointlessly wild shots and milling around when ambushed, when they have such great legions at their side!"

((When I first wrote this update, I had in mind a great rant against scientific interpretations of sci fi-when a group of people, with brains the size of planets, get together, watch films frame by frame, and bother to read every single stat in the "DK Guide to Star Kill Maim IV", so as they can eventually work out that, actually, a Triplex Phaser shot is only about 0.8 megajoules higher than was previously believed. And, it is true, there is probably much to mock about this if you look closely enough. But now, on reflection, I've decided against taking this course. Science, when it comes down to it, is what will resolve many of our crises. Nuclear reactors and wind farms, not human compassion, will drive back the increasing climate change. We can make all manner of speeches, and sing our songs; but it is scientists who will discover ways to combat droughts and desertification. If this is a way of keeping their mighty brains ticking over, then so be it. That said, I can't help but snigger a little when those internet debates of theirs drag on, and ever on, about just how effective a Type XI Lasgun will be against Imperial Stormtrooper armour. As such, I will wilfully make up my own rules, for the sake of drama and comedy.))

"You know," said Admiral Cicero, "I expected some witty remark."

"Me too," said Lady Allura, "but I was parsecs away for some reason."

"So was I," said the Admiral. "Strange. I just didn't feel the urge to say a word for a few moments; and, judging from the controls, dials etc, the ship simply ceased functioning."

"Well, it's sweet as a bell now."

"Yes. Shall we move on then?"

"Sure thing, Admiral."

"Yes. Well, you really should keep out of how I drill my storm troopers in future, is that understood?"

"Crystal clear."

"Good. Now, I want you to be aware that our glorious Imperial Forces are to be making a full scale landing on that… well, lets call it Palpatine Forsaken Mudhole. That shall do for the time being. Five thousand men, with full armoured support. You are to provide support, on these co ordinates. I trust that your company has been holding the enemy at bay thus far?"

"We've captured a bunch of 'em. And shot and forced them afterwards. Usually works."

"And the man in sixth platoon got his wish," said a nearby storm trooper. "Sir," he added hastily.

"Very well. In the orbital front, the PKABY is to engage and destroy the enemy space craft with all due despatch. In this way, we are to crush all Counter Imperial elements."

"Oh good." Allura took the proffered holographic projector, and studied the reconnaissance reports closely. "But there's a flaw."

"Pray tell?"

"Pray? We're atheists!"

"My apologies. That was RADA kicking in again."

"Happens to the worst of us, love."

"Yes. Well. Anyway, what is this flaw?"

"There appears to be about nine of these ships in orbit, along with hyperdrive signals from dozens of… unknown ships."

"The numbers of the enemy have been taken into account, Lady. But this _must_ be the point when we prove the supremacy of Imperial starship design."

"Well, I'll be on the ground. All the best." And with that, Allura and co. boarded their own dropships, nodded to the TIE Fighter escort, and down they went.

Ironically, Admiral Cicero's bold statement was the exact same as the thought in the mind of the Tech Priests manning the Explorator Imperatus' guns, as they locked on to the _Paplatine Kicks Ass, Bitch! Yeah!_

The Tech Priest quoth one immortal line: "IMMA FIRIN' MAH LEHZOOR, BEOTCH! YEH!" and pressed the operating rune with a flourish.

The battle for Emperor Forsaken Mudhole had began.

"_to the last place uncorrupted by Capitalism. Space!"_

_(Premier Cheredenko at the end of Red Alert 3.)_

Well, you know what's coming next.

"Comrade Commander! Glorious news for the Soviet Union and, indeed, the working classes of the entire galaxy! The capitalist Alliance Pig Dogs fell for our dastardly ploy when they destroyed a false space ship, whereas in fact Comrade Premier Cheredenko, Light of the Proletariat, Friend of the Oppressed Masses, thrice awarded the Order of Lenin, Hero of the Soviet Union, had in fact escaped some hours before with a significant contingent of our armed forces!"

Comrade General Krukov thumped the desk with glee. "Even now, Comrade Commander, our ship has just landed on a new planet, ready to liberate from the Capitalist-Imperialist-Reactionary-Fascist-Proto Wreckerist-Consumerist-Counter Revolutionary…"

"Sir," He'Stan said, looking disconsolately at his phaser rifle, "can we go back now?"

Captain Obvious looked at him with a truculent glint in his eye. "Did you say 'go back'?"

"Yes, actually."

"Not 'Oh please, lets go on into that deep, sinister cave we just saw those mysterious lights coming out of?'"

Lieutenant Ginger sighed to herself, and cursed the day she ever decided to give up on her career as an investigative journalist.

"No, I did not say 'Oh please, lets go on into that deep, sinister cave we just saw those mysterious lights coming out of.' I said 'can we go back now?'"

"What makes you think," said Captain Obvious, "that we have made a sufficient example of ourselves to the crew yet?"

Ensign Borf, the Klingon, thought to himself that they had made a very good example of themselves, but for the wrong reasons.

"Well," He'Stan said, gesturing at the cave, "we have been tramping around for about two hours now, and have found nothing. And I've got a stitch. Besides, that cave looks pretty dangerous. I propose that we pull back to the ship, set up a defensive perimeter, and sit this one out."

"I propose that we make lots of money. Now," said guess which race.

"How? Yeah, by accepting the award for going in this cave! To arms, people!" said Captain Obvious enthusiastically.

"No way sir," Borf replied."

"C'mon Borf, you're the proud warrior race guy here. Chin up!"

"I will be, until some nasty monster takes me by the scruff of the neck and bitch slaps me across the cave, only for me to be knocked out in a non lethal but highly painful and humiliating way. I will, of course, recover, only for us to encounter just about the same situation a mere week later. What the hell should I be doing this again for?"

"He's got a point," Ginger said. "I mean, why are we here?"

"That's my line when we get to have a big ol' soliloquy at the camera together! Now charge your phasers. We're going in. That is an order!"

And, because he said it in that tone, no one would ever defy them.

"Right, boys and girl! Forward! Geronimo!" Captain Obvious roared defiantly.

"To victory!" He'Stan said pessimistically.

The cave loomed open before them.

But not for long. The sky suddenly filled with fireballs, fireballs that rained down. Bright yellow fireballs, made of adamantium and plas steel, each painted bright yellow by an eight year old child with about thirty pounds or so to spare each month, and dutiful parents, who has approximately no artistic skill. (Well, actually, it was by servitors, because this isn't written by "RoguePsyker", but by "Awilla the Hun", so the models aren't actually an inch or so in height. Yet.)

"Something," said He'Stan sombrely, "is amiss." He sniffed the air, and realised that it was whatever muscle that had kept his bowels in order.

"Damn right it is," said Captain Obvious as the first of these fireballs hit the barren ground nearby with a splintering crash. "It's that we aren't in that cave! Come on, team! We're here to dish hurt, not get hurt!"

"Sir," said Lieutenant Ginger as the first one began to open slowly, "I really am disappointed in you."

"You think that I'm doing this wrong?"

"Well, yeah. And your battlecries are usually quite inspiring."

"Thanks, Ginger. Now, hoo-ah!"

The fireball's door crashed open with a loud…crash. Steam hissed out sinisterly. More and more pods thumped in around them. Our heroes were thrown around by uproarious detonations, which only ended when Borf stopped eating his Heinz Baked Bean tin. ("But I wanted to try all fifty seven varieties before I died!" he protested feebly.) But, phasers raised, they stared out into the gloom.

And, finally, something stepped out of the drop pod. Something huge, and menacing.

Now, an explanation is called for here. In the Warhammer 40,000 universe, there are four levels of angry. The first is "Pissed off". This is when you get a normal Space Marine. The second is "Rather annoyed" (Khorne Bezerker with chillies in its mouth, having had the remote stolen.) Thirdly, you have "Angry Marine", which is when you have one of the Angry Marines.

Finally, of course, you have the Angry Marines combined with a popular British political satire that used to be on at 10:00 on Saturday nights, until some soulless BBC Executives decided to have done with it.

So, without further ado, it is time to introduce the next character in this little story of joyous adventure: Angry Marine Captain Tucker. Dressed in his bright yellow power armour with red trim, and the distinctive frowning face symbols, he is about eight feet tall. As is the case so very often with Space Marine Officers, his face is bared. His grey hair is well cut, but his face is the one of a psychotic: bags under the eyes you could carry the weekly groceries in, staring eyes, and often bared teeth.

But, happily, he is currently surprisingly mellow, only punching out one of his battle brothers as he steps out of the pod with a sinister clang. "That's for nicking my bolt pistol, you fat fuck. Right, what's this then?" He peered at the redshirts and co, and the line of phasers pointed at him (which was starting to wobble slightly.) "Do you know-" he began, voice rising into its finest angry crescendo.

"Attack now!" Ginger cried, blasting at him with her phaser. "I've seen the back episodes. If you let him talk, he'll make up some crushingly evil metaphor that will destroy us all with humiliation!"

"Kill that son of a bitch now!" said Captain Obvious. "Or we're meat!"

"Well done Captain Obvious," they chorused dutifully, opening fire with their weapons.

The volley of energy bolts drove the vast Marine back a step, making his power armour glow dully as he readied his bolt pistol. "Don't you do that ever again!" he shouted. "Or I'll come to your house, and rip up your fucking telephone book, until-"

Ginger could see the signs already. "Aim for the head! It's our only chance!"

"The head?" Captain Obvious looked at her bewilderedly. They were only trained to not aim at the obvious weak spots. Only once chance left. "Borf! Attack!"

Borf half drew his bat leth. He looked at it the two feet of shining, sharpened metal. Then he looked at the enormous, shouting and ranting Space Marine before him, with his gun drawn.

"You get him Borf," He'Stan said bravely, from behind Captain Obvious' bulk.

"Come on!"

The Klingon sighed. "I'm not paid for this," he muttered. He raised his blade. "Die, scum," he said half heartedly, jogged forward a few steps, and was (of course) backhanded into another drop pod. Only Captain Obvious was unduly surprised by this.

"Oh come on! I've been hit harder by Eldrad Ulthran with a wraithbone flower arranging kit on a trip to fucking Legoland Armageddon, and even then he was play fighting. You bunch of-"

"To the cave!" Obvious barked, discharging the last shots of his phaser as more and more Angry Marines emerged from their pods, and more bolters were readied.

"That's quite a plan," He'Stan admitted as a missile shot over his head. He thumbed his phaser to high power, and blew the Marine off his feet in return. "I mean, they won't drop any pods on us, and we could lose them in the darkness. And, if it comes to it, we could hold them off in the narrow entrance."

"No, because the echoes will drown that goddamn supersized windbag out. DOUBLE TIME!"

The trekkies did. Bolters roared and thundered, rounds pinging wildly off drop pods. Flamers were ignited, and wooshed menacingly. But, with the greatest force of all-plot armour-at their side, Captain Obvious, Lieutenant Ginger, and He'Stan the Vulcan all managed to dash into the safety of the cave.

"Phew," they all said as one, slumping back in a conveniently placed alcove as, gradually, the sounds of firing died away.

"We did good," said Captain Obvious, reloading his weapon clickly. "I'm proud of you fellas."

"Did good? We got our asses handed to us by a pissed off Scotsman and a bunch of lunatics in LARP suits!" He'Stan threw down his phaser in disgust. "The almighty power of Starfleet."

"We took a couple with us," said Ginger in a placating mood. "Anyway, I'd suggest getting your phaser back." She pointed into the darkness. "I think we'll need it…"

What happens next? What has she spotted in the darkness? How long a gap will there be between this chapter and the next one (in excess of three months? Six, even?) Find out, in the next chapter.

I NEEDZ MOAR REVIEWS! MOAR!


	4. An Orkish OMAKE ?

My friends. Once again, we come to another part of the most serious warhammer crossover ever. Something very interesting has happened.

I have just had a review from a certain JagerPanzer. He is critiquing the technical realism of the fic. Little does he know that my only knowledge of the Star Wars canon comes from watching the films a few times. Therefore, from such slim evidence as that which was actually directed by George Lucas for entertainment, I cannot possibly know about the relative firepower of Warhammer and Star Wars ships. Of course, if I was to read all the technical manuals and novels, and watch the TV Series, most of which were not directed by George Lucas, it would obviously become so clear! I mean, I always saw them as cool, flashy starships lobbing gigantic laser beams, cannon shells, and missiles across the galaxy, with lots of spectacular special effects and cool fight scenes, with fighters zipping around and characters exchanging witty dialogue. (On second thoughts, I refute the last one. Harrison "You may write this shit, George, but I can't act it" Ford got it more or less dead on.) Similarly, phasers look like cool sci fi laser guns, which are interestingly shaped and shoot various different beams of killy energy. Besides, in such a serious fanfic as this, with the Fourth Wall being constantly broken by more or less everyone, technical accuracy is really not that important.

Also, Latin translations (remember, the Imperium technically speaks High Gothic, not Roman, Clerical, Vernacular, or otherwise Latin) are more or less on par with those of other Warhammer 40,000 fanfic writers. They were meant to be.

Finally: I have also received a review, requesting that more Orks are included. Previously, I had not planned to include any. Now, however, I feel honour bound to include some Greenskins, somewhere. In addition, I happened to have some Orkish writing floating around the place. Hoorah! It has precisely nothing to do with the plot, and is indeed unfinished; but it has Orks. So in it goes: an "OMAKE".

"OMAKE" ((I believe this is the term-it means, judging from _Toyhammer_, something entirely unrelated to anything going on in the story, but still being used within it)): The Memoirs of Grubnatz Kansmasha.

A Tale of the 41st Millennium

Concerning His Upbringing in the Great World of Garrkan; His Fortunes as an Ork of Warfare; His Battles with various Grot-esque foes; His Visits to Diverse Planets of the Galaxy; And the Many Treacherous Manoeuvrings Against Him

Part the First: By What means to I obtain the Style and Title of KanSmasha

If any are to be congratulated for my incredible success as a great Ork of Warfare, (save for my own good Fortunes and Talents, which are considerable in every important regard), it must be none other than the much admired and renowned Warboss Grangskull Mag Garrkan Dakkatoof. Grangskull (I will, on occasions, be regrettably forced to contract the names of by contemporaries throughout these memoirs, as is the modern way; my supplies of ink and paper are limited) was undoubtedly amongst the greatest Orks of Warfare our race has ever created, and he should be more well known.

((And, before continuing, I imagine that copies of this will inevitably fall into the hands of the Inquisition of the feeble Imperium. It would not be the first time that Orks of lesser greatness than I have managed to fail in their mission to take over the galaxy with their Waagh!s. When it does, I would hope that all those translators that they doubtless have poring over it will notice that it is not written in that ridiculous lower class accent that they are so wont to portray us as having. I can only presume that, through some incredible oversight of the human mind, they do not realise that Orks are entirely capable having better penmanship, more elegant conversation, and far nicer manners than the mere Gretchin and Snotlings who serve us. This is hopefully to be corrected, for we are, as I need not remind my cunning and learned readers, a race with a long and rich history. Certainly, I have rarely noted any of my contemporaries to be so lacking in taste as to scratch their backsides and roar in an _animalistic_ or _bestial_ way; that is considered, I am told, as a triumphant speech is amongst humankind. I would never dare to consider any of their poets as men lacking in elegance in the human way.))

But I digress. Let us return to my life, for it is far more interesting than mere human linguistic study.

Warboss Grangskull was an extremely astute Ork, although he included the word "Dakka" in his name. "Come come sir," he would say to his few detractors, "have I not twelve feet stooped and fourteen standing? Do I not have scars from a dozen dozen dozen engagements? Does my bosspole not have the crowns of a thousand kings piled richly upon it?" And the other Ork would just nod, wordlessly (for these facts were indubitably true), and would decide to reconsider his rude remarks, and to lay aside his drawn choppa.

My own personal upbringing was entirely normal for an Ork of my clan (that of the proud and noble Snakebites.) My earliest memories involve a large, angry looking Ork (whose name I cannot recall; his untimely demise at the hands of a hyperactive snotling swarm prevented such fond remembrances as these), and his inclination towards my repeated use of the slugga, and the choppa, in as violent and brutal a manner as possible; specifically, my burying the latter, and discharging the former, into the skull of a Squiggoth (which, for those of you who have not had the honour of fighting alongside a Snakebite force, is extremely robust in construction.) Attempts were also made to enhance my boarmanship; but I was never a skilled rider. And so, needless to say, I was introduced into the tribe's slugga boyz contingent, and have worked my way up from there ever since.

Despite this minor obstacle, though, it was a generally happy and pleasant upbringing. There was no Ork stronger than I with the choppa, or more enthusiastic about my shooting skills; indeed, I have been congratulated many times on the great weight of hot lead thrown about by any weapon that comes into my hands (you may be sure, sir, that the unOrky concept of "accuracy" never crossed my mind in the least! That is, of course, to be left to the gretchin, and other inferior species to ourselves.) Our warbands regularly ravaged the humans living near to us, and their own parties of knights and men at arms made good their attempts upon our own strongholds; a fine state of affairs for a young Ork with good weaponry and the blessing of Gork upon him. I even took possession of a servant after ten summers, for I had had an extraordinary crop of teeth that year (partly taken of others; I was not a puny stormboy at that time, but as rambunctious as the hardest Goff, and my playmates knew this well.)

"D'ye have a name, sir?" I asked the pale little fellow as the Runtherd was handed his cash. "No? Then you shall be known as Fixit!"

"Ain't there anuvver Fixit out there, Boss?" said this Fixit.

"Indeed so; but his own Gretchin is considered as being amongst the greatest of his august kind, just as I am to be known as the greatest of my own."

"Right you are, boss."

And it is certainly true that there was no servant more attentive to a young Ork's needs than good Fixit, and there was no firmer master than I. My frequent applications of my will, via steel capped boot to his fragile areas, was more than enough to make him comprehend my wishes.

A decent enough start to life. But by no means an exceptional one, and little sign that I would become the great Ork of Warfare that would make the galaxy quake in fear. That, sirs, would come in two years time, when the Imperium came to Garrkan, and I experienced my first true taste of battle.

To reduce a long series of events, all exceptionally complex and entirely too tedious for such a race as ours to follow, the Imperium of Man saw fit to arrive upon our great, green, but tragically lonely world. One moment, the Garrkan humans were on their own, facing our "green tide" with steam-lock, cannon and sabre; the next, a large cruiser was in orbit, with a drop ship swiftly descending. Mere hours later, their great patchwork of kings and emperors had been replaced with but one governor.

Of course, Snakebites being Snakebites, we were quick to discover these new developments, and even quicker to capitalise upon them. I remember well the day, and the consequences even more so.

I had just procured, at the small and ironic expense of a tooth, a squig. It was not for eating, but for preparation by Fixit. He had recently distinguished himself at the fine art of squig cooking, and knew well that the spit had to be applied _thus_, and that rotation was to be done in _just such _a manner as to ensure that the flesh was best blackened. The scales were inevitably scraped away with a fine, robust blade (of course; for I had by then procured what I considered a wide and varied collection of teeth.)

((The chief method of ensuring that a gretchin-servant does not eat the squig, coincidentally, is to hire a reliable Mekboy. Such a gentleman is likely to be skilled in manufacturing alarms. A method less reliant upon capital, which many of my readers are likely to appreciate, is affixing a small clamp to his jaws. Whilst the creature is capable of breathing through its long and exceptionally hooked nose, its ability to eat, or to barter your squig with other gretchin, is greatly reduced.))

But, alas, I digress from the narrative; and the tale of my Upbringing, Fortunes, and suchlike, must continue.

The squig was wriggling nicely, and I was on the verge of throwing it to Fixit, when a horn was sounded, in the distance. And another, and then a third.

"What bloody Ork is that?" a nearby Ork of my acquaintance (who revelled in the name of Sluggalugg) was heard to enquire.

"Let us investigate, sir," I said.

Now, in our Klan, horns were blown for few reasons: to honour our idols of Gork and Mork, which were stern and warlike; to signal the arrival of a great, dead carcase which could be carved and roasted at will; and to call its boyz to war. Therefore, as we grabbed and shouldered our arms, in eager anticipation of the third, generally expecting the second ("The humans wouldn't dare come here! They try, and they simply fail! Time and time again; I simply fail to understand them"), and regarding the third with complete, absolute dread.

("We know that our making war is pleasing to them; and that their great belching contest created our race. Is this not sufficient for religious knowledge?" was the cry to be heard by most. Of course, for the purposes of the sadist who gave us lectures, it never was. Several Orks called the lecturer out; and several Orks were the recipients of Slugga fire before breakfast.)

Sadly, at this point, my writing on Orks, originally sent off to Games Workshop for a "Fear the Alien" taster, has came to an end. I hope this OMAKE was enough for you, Haegr!


End file.
